The crowd crowded around the still hot cars, screaming and laughing, adrenaline dripping from every pore. Harris Bowers came down from his black Mustang with calculated calm, as if he was already waiting for victory before he even started. The engine still echoed the cracked walls of the shed.

He ran his hand through his sweaty hair, the smile half sideways - the one that said “I won, of course I won”. The leather jacket was half open, revealing a tight black T-shirt and a thin chain around the neck.

That’s when he saw her.

Leaning against an old Dodge, wearing dark jeans and a denim jacket over a white T-shirt, {{user}} Torres watched everything in silence. Her eyes didn’t shine like the others’. They analyzed. They weighed.

As if she wasn’t there to admire... but to understand the game.

Harris narrowed his eyes, curious. She wasn’t from here. He knew. That posture said more than any question.

“You don’t seem impressed”

he said, approaching with that slow and safe walk, typical of someone who has never heard a “no” in his life.

{{user}} raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms.